[guest post] salt.tequila.lime (bitch)

Guest post by Kaytlyn Sanders. To find more by Kaytlyn check out her blog, KatyMonster
Ralee Marie Evans started every relationship she ever had with a bottle of tequila. For that matter, she ended every relationship with one, too. She found the burn that slipped across her tongue and sliced down her throat compelling, the salt on the tip of her tongue inspiring. She liked that all of her first kisses tasted like fresh limes and early summer. And all those boys, well, they liked it too.
Her loud laugh, messy hair and the artfully drawn ink mustache on her pointer finger drew them in. Most decided they wanted to kiss her by the second shot. Partly because of her terribly, and decidedly fake, Mexican accent and mostly because of the way she licked the inside of her wrist to make the salt stick to her tanned skin.
Some of those boys wanted to ease the nervous tension that seemed to buzz through her body while she took careless drags off of her friend’s cigarettes. Some just liked her tendency to burst into random dance parties, kicking off her shoes and swinging her hips while singing completely off-key. One even managed to make her laugh so hard she cried when he fished 1 flip-flop out of a bush, acted out a scene like Prince Charming trying to find Cinderella and called her ‘princess patron’ the rest of the night.
She wasn’t particularly beautiful-just a simple kind of muted pretty. Freckles danced across her nose and played a connect-the-dot game along the honey sweet skin of her neck. Her sharp green eyes had just enough gold to warm them when she found something engaging. She had full lips that she was forever biting while trying to remember their names.
Half of them found this intriguing. The other half just liked how after she remembered, she did a dramatic victory dance and high-fived them in celebration. She cussed too much most of those nights, but they found the profanity almost ‘suited’ her and she took that as a compliment more often than not.
The problem, you see, was never those first nights. All of them were almost perfect in their simple pleasures. Alcohol making everything fuzzy and happy, laughing over privates jokes and listening to music in smokey crowded rooms, looking up at the stars in countless backyards. No, the problem came on the nights those relationships ended. Where the hot fire of straight tequila didn’t feel like the spark of something new, where it didn’t taste like a promise. Instead, it tasted more like something lost.
Still, every time, she bundled into her favorite hoodie, grabbed a bottle to nurse by the fire, called a friend to invite to the ceremony and headed to the sit at the same picnic table. Her apartment key was always just sharp enough to make another tally in the soft wood. She could almost remember which one they each belonged to. Almost. She was always fairly terrible with their names.
A friend would appear with an empty shot-glass, even though half-way through, they normally just drank from the bottle and Ralee Marie Evans would dump out a box onto the table.
And out would come the evidence. Mainly letters, ticket stubs and pictures. Sometimes, CDs and t-shirts there were forever forgetting on her bedroom floor. All reminders of the countless days and hours and minutes she’d spent since slamming down that first shot, proof of a love that had certainly lost its charm (and sometimes lost its meaning). Piece by piece, she’d burn them. Taking a shot for herself and watching the flames curl up, bright against the dark sticky night. Partly because she found something vaguely romantic about watching the flames consume the relationships bit by bit, but mainly because tequila and the vague reminder that it may bring someone new around the bend was the only thing that gave her any warmth at all anymore.
Guest post by Kaytlyn Sanders. To find more by Kaytlyn check out her blog, KatyMonster
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To guest post on iREADray, contact Ray at rayceojr@gmail.com 

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